


Soft Touch

by thecarlysutra



Category: Kiss Kiss Bang Bang
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-14
Updated: 2011-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-14 18:28:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/152176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thecarlysutra/pseuds/thecarlysutra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>SUMMARY: Harry had good hands, and he could have a soft touch when he wanted.<br/>AUTHOR’S NOTES: Written per the anonymous Kink Bang Meme request: “Perry gets his ass kicked and Harry freaks out and I don't care how this leads to an 'I love you' confession so long as it happens”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soft Touch

  
Alcohol’s been to blame for a lot of things in my life, but I guess that’s not unique or profound or any of that shit. Every other girl lost her virginity after a few too many Jell-O shots, and half the guys I went to high school with were conceived in the backseat of some jack off’s car after a kegger. So I’m not special; whatever. Like you’re doing any better. The point is, this story starts with booze, too.

I’d been working for Perry for a couple months, and besides my being straight, the thought of knocking boots with the boss never crossed my mind. I mean, he works from home, which means I work from his home, which means I’ve seen him after he gets out of the shower. Don’t get me wrong, the _Perry in a towel_ part was good, but he also does that thing girls do with a towel on their hair, twisting it up so they’ve got, like, this pointy Buddha towel head, and after you see a man do that, you can pretty much kiss all romantic inclination goodbye.

Or so I thought.

Anyway, he took me to one of Dabney’s parties one night, and I had a little too much to drink and Perry had a _lot_ too much to drink, and the next thing I know, we’re in some little alcove that seems private in that there’s no one there right now, but that really is just a corner someone could walk into any minute, but it was kind of hard to think about that at the time because all of a sudden Perry’s on his knees with my dick in his mouth. And I know what you’re thinking: _Harry, you’re not gay, you have the big time girl love,_ but even if I was undeniably, one hundred percent, Chuck Norris-level straight, I was still a man, and once the Blowjob Sequence has been activated, you stop thinking about labels and politics or even in words. Everything is just one big, giant YES.

And it’s not like Perry took advantage, or that he just jumped me out of nowhere. I mean, it’s not a big deal, and I ended up being cool with it and I’m the one who matters here, so fuck you, but you hear all these bigoted, Nancy Reagan-esque stories about how gays are predators and shit, and I don’t want you thinking that about Perry. The thing is, apparently I get kind of handsy when I’m drunk, and Perry and I were just talking and laughing, party stuff, and I guess I was touching him, my hand on his arm, then the back of his neck, his chest, and it was just this thoughtless, friendly thing, but he was really drunk and I guess he got worked up, and he kind of ran with it.

Which, again: I ended up being totally fine with, and I don’t want to be hyperbolic here, but it was, up until that point, the best fucking blowjob of my life. I thought my head was going to explode. Both heads. Er. Anyway, completely life changing, mind blowing (Harry blowing? Fuck, I’m even thinking gay now.) sex, and then the next day, Perry doesn’t say anything. Which is cool about dating a guy; you don’t talk about your feelings and shit; life just goes on. And I thought maybe it was a one time thing, but then I stayed super late one night helping Perry on a case, and I’d had a bad day and was exhausted and cranky and in the middle of me crabbing at him, Perry kissed me, which has since become the only reliable way of getting me to shut up, something he totally abuses, by the way. Not that I’m complaining. Anyway, Perry kissed me, and I was kind of surprised but not enough to not push my luck, so I asked if he’d do that thing like back at Dabney’s party—and that’s exactly how I put it, since I was really new at this gay thing, and not comfortable with the nomenclature, and I don’t know if I’m getting better about it, but somehow Perry can say all this shit and it sounds really manly, which is ironic, I guess, because he’s, like, professional gay. Anyway, I asked if he’d do it, and he just looked at me a minute like he was going to call me on being ballsy, but then he said okay, and it was even more amazing than at Dabney’s, because we were alone and not worried about getting caught and Perry was sober, which meant he was a lot more directed and forceful and generally on the ball—balls—and I considered for a moment asking why he didn’t do _that_ for a living, but then I thought of him rent boying all over LA and the stupidest fucking thing happened. I got jealous. Not just jealous of some ridiculous hypothetical, but of Perry.

Jesus. What the fuck’s happened to me, right?

***

Perry preferred the civilized side of private security. The old noir style, where you did your job, solved the case, and the most action you could expect was some mixed up dame coming onto you. Not this _Chinatown_ bullshit. Mostly, detective work was boring, and Perry could do his _Big Sleep_ thing without much aggravation. Sometimes things did get dicey, but Perry could handle himself. Most of the time. Sometimes, the numbers just weren’t on your side. Like if the numbers were four against one.

Perry had been hoping to wrap up the Peterson case early, then go home and catch up on some relaxation, which he had been neglecting of late. But life had other plans, and Perry ended up without the evidence he needed, spending the evening in the emergency room instead of on his couch.

The hospital staff did little to bolster Perry’s mood. He loathed giving up control, and the doctors and nurses shuttled him from room to room—stitches, x-rays, MRI—and then kept insisting that he sit still. He started to itch a bit under his skin, not from the beating, but from his mounting irritation. Worst of all, when they were finally done experimenting on him, they told him he could not drive home on his own; he had a concussion, and they’d pumped him full of drugs besides, and they could legally only release him tonight if he was released _to_ somebody.

Perry’s instinct was to snap and growl and put some of his PI prowess to practice, pulling a daring, covert escape. But he forced himself to calm down and think a minute, and changed his mind. Some things just weren’t worth the fight. Which worked out pretty well this time, because, in his present state, Perry lacked the energy, anyhow. He made a phone call, instead.

“Yello?”

Perry sighed. “Goddammit, how many times do I have to instruct you on telephone etiquette? This is a business, Harry; I’m a professional, and when people call to talk to me, the fucking telephone service had better be professional, or they’ll think they’re calling some punk kid who’s seen too many episodes of _Veronica Mars_. Repeat after me: ‘Sentron Inc., how may I direct your call?’”

“Geez, lighten up. It’s the middle of the night; how many people do you think are calling to book snoop jobs? Wait. Are you just calling me to audit my phone answering mojo?”

“No, and you should count your fucking blessings, because you would have failed and I would have fired you. I’m at Cedars; I need you to come pick me up.”

“I don’t have a car—”

“Then take the bus, or a cab, or the goddamn Pony Express. I don’t give a shit; just get here, or you can walk your ass to the unemployment office.”

Perry hung up without waiting for an answer; he had learned that, unless you wanted to spend the rest of your life hearing every thought that popped into the man’s head, it was best to control any conversation with Harry.

***

A nurse came in, adjusted his IV, and strongly encouraged him to drink something. Perry ignored her, and when his phone rang, he ignored her insistence that cell phones were restricted on this floor.

“Okay, I’m here, but it’s like fucking Fort Knox down here,” Harry said. “They won’t let me in anywhere, and they keep looking at me like I’m gonna steal something.”

“Don’t,” Perry said. “Just stay where you are, and don’t do anything stupid. I’m coming down.”

He ripped the IV from his arm, to much fluttering of hands on the nurse’s part.

Harry, unshaven and grubby in the old gray hoodie that looked like it had been run over by a city bus, was twitching at the admissions desk when Perry limped down.

“They tried to admit me to the methadone clinic,” Harry said in a stage whisper.

“Maybe if you got a fucking haircut, and put on some clothes you didn’t fish out of a dumpster, people would stop viewing you as a danger to society,” Perry said. To the admissions nurse, he said, “Perry Van Shrike, checking out. This idiot’s my ride.”

The nurse exchanged the keys to the Mercedes for Harry’s signature.

It was only on the hobble to the parking garage that Harry’s light bulb went off. He goggled at Perry’s face.

“Hey!” he said. “What happened to you? You get hurt or something?”

“No,” Perry said. “I was just at the hospital for my ballroom dance lesson.”

Perry was going to subvert medical advice again and drive himself home, but as he sank into the leather sling of the driver’s seat, his head swam, his vision going soft and slanty. He took a deep breath, and closed his hand around the keys.

“You know how you’re always begging me to let you drive?” Perry said.

“And how you always tell me to fuck off, since it’s ‘an exquisite piece of German engineering’ and I’m a fuckhead?”

“Yeah, that,” Perry said vaguely. “It’s your lucky day.”

He handed Harry the keys, and got out of the car. Harry just blinked at him a moment, but he didn’t need to be told twice; he bounded up from the passenger’s seat, and ran around the car to take Perry’s place. He was adjusting the seat when Perry got in the car; Perry flinched from the pain of squeezing his aching body into the small space, and then again from the grinding noise of Harry rocking the seat back and forth on the track.

“Would you stop that?” Perry said. “This car still cost more than you’re worth, and me letting you drive doesn’t mean I won’t flay you if you so much as scratch the paint. Put your seatbelt on. Drive the speed limit. Use the goddamn turn signal—”

Harry waved him off, and started the car. Perry closed his eyes to the blur of streetlights and neon against the dark night sky, attempting to orient himself to the movement of the car.

“Slow down, Harry.”

“I’m not speeding that much,” Harry said, but towards the end the noise died in his throat, and Perry felt the car decelerate.

Perry leaned back into the plush leather of his seat, and waited for the world to stop spinning.

***

Harry managed not to kill them getting back to Perry’s place. The car rolled to a stop, nestled inside Perry’s immaculate garage, and Perry felt his brain settle a moment after, like it was made of liquid. His hands were slow releasing his seatbelt, and Harry was already gone, out of the car and in the house, by the time he got it undone.

By the time he made it to the house, Harry was keyed up or clued in, or both, and he stabbed an accusing finger at Perry’s chest.

“What’s wrong with you?”

“They gave me something,” Perry said.

Harry frowned. “They gave you something to make your cheek puffy and your lip all mangled, and so you walk like a mummy?”

Some things just weren’t worth the fight. Perry swallowed the biting comeback, and shuffled down the hall. Harry, though, was inexorable, and followed on his heels, yapping incessantly.

“Are you going to tell me what happened? Perry. Hey. Perry. Perry. Perry.”

Perry caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror entering his bedroom, and wasted a minute examining his changed reflection. They had put twenty stitches in his mouth—big, black ones, despite his protests; he looked like fucking Frankenstein’s monster. His right eye and cheek were swollen, and had begun to discolor already; tomorrow they would be badly bruised. Perry frowned, and then flinched. Pain was one thing, but he was going to look like some punk for weeks.

Perry sighed and stepped away from the depressing reflection. He started unbuttoning his shirt; somewhere between the hospital and the house, the medicine they’d given him had kicked in, and he didn’t know how much longer he could stay on his feet.

Perry tuned back in to the uninterrupted broadcast of Radio Harry.

“I can do this all night. Perry. Perryperryperryperryperryperry—”

“I had a little trouble on surveillance tonight, in the form of several meaty, hired goons,” Perry said. He tried to slip his shoulders out of his shirt, but the pain of his cracked ribs was too much. “Help me.”

Harry stepped forward, but then just looked dumbly at Perry, half in and half out of his shirt.

Perry sighed. “Help me get my goddamn shirt off, Harry. And remember: it’s Italian cotton and cost more than your education, so be fucking careful, and try not to grub it up too much with your dirty little mitts.”

Harry rolled his eyes, but he was very gentle removing Perry’s shirt. He had good hands, and he could have a soft touch when he wanted. It wasn’t a thing that happened often, but Perry was grateful for it now. He instructed Harry on the exacting procedure for preparing his shirt for its trip to the dry cleaners, and tried to finish undressing. He undid his belt and fly, but it hurt too much to bend over to remove his pants and shoes, so Perry waited, pants open, burning with the frustration of his own limitations. It was going to be hell to get old. He hoped his mind went first, because this will and wit trapped inside an imperfect machine was torture.

Harry finished with the shirt, and then looked dumbly to Perry.

“I need your help,” Perry said. Saying it was like chewing on glass, but he got it out.

Harry let it go, though, and Perry felt his heart swell in gratitude for the soft touch. Perry didn’t take direction well, especially from Harry, so instead of telling him to sit down, Harry just moved him physically—his soft hands on Perry’s waist, driving him back until his knees hit the bed; on his shoulder, weighing him down to the mattress.

When he’d been shot in the shootout with Dexter’s goons, Perry had been as unconscious or good as for days, and he hadn’t remembered anything until waking up two days after his surgery. The doctors had undressed him, but he had no memory of it, and the last memory he had of someone sitting him down and taking his shoes off for him was from childhood. And maybe it was the drugs, or that he’d gotten his ass beat earlier that evening, but Perry felt a knot condense in his throat. He swallowed ineffectually, and then, without thinking, threaded his fingers through Harry’s hair, cradling the base of Harry’s skull in his palm.

“Harry, I—”

Harry looked up, and with the force of those brown eyes on him, the words died in Perry’s mouth.

He tried to wet his lips, but his mouth was dry.

“Thanks,” he said.

And Harry didn’t even gloat. He just helped Perry into bed, careful of the bandages circling his ribcage. Perry relaxed into the plush bank of pillows, into the pleasant medicine fog. Harry lay down next to him, but above the covers, sprawling like a milk-drugged cat, taking up way more of the bed than he should have been able to, given his size. He had his dirty sneakers on Perry’s silk duvet, but Perry was too comfortable to care, even when Harry found the remote and turned the TV to some trashy reality show.

Perry’s mind bobbed comfortably along the river of a warm bed and veins full of Demerol. He looked at Harry, face illuminated by the flickering light of the television, crinkled with laughter.

“You should probably stay here tonight,” Perry said. “I’m not supposed to be left alone.”

“Huh,” Harry snickered. “You usually say that about me.”

“I have a concussion,” Perry added.

Harry shrugged. “I can stay. Whatever.” He switched off the TV and hauled himself off the bed.

“Where are you going?”

Harry jerked his thumb in the direction of the guest room. “It’s getting late. I thought I’d—”

Perry tried to sit up, but he was too tired and it was too painful. He collapsed back to the bed. “You said you’d stay.”

Comprehension failed to dawn on Harry’s face. “Yeah, I will.”

Perry closed his eyes. He counted to ten.

“Here,” he said. “You said you’d stay _here_.”

“I—”

“In bed, here, with me,” Perry said. Harry looked a bit taken aback, so he added, “I have a concussion. I’m not supposed to be left by myself. I could die.”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“You’re too mean to die,” he said, but he trotted back to the bed.

“Shoes,” Perry said.

“Yes, mother.”

Harry yanked his sneakers off without touching the laces, and clambered into bed. Harry was a lot of things, but he wasn’t graceful, and as he was settling down, his knees and elbows jabbed Perry so many times that Perry checked to make sure he only had two of each.

“Jesus,” Perry gasped, taking an elbow to his broken ribs, “this is like bedding down with El Niño.”

“Who’s that?” Harry asked. “Some Mexican wrestler you used to date?”

Perry rubbed at the bridge of his nose. Why had he thought this was a good idea? But then Harry stopped flailing, and just roosted beside him, his body warm against Perry’s, and the reasons came rushing back. And some guilt. He had screwed Harry, but they had never slept together before. He didn’t want to treat Harry like he was cheap, some fuck toy, because that wasn’t how Perry thought of him; it’s just that Harry wasn’t really boyfriend material. He was loud and awkward and had a complete deficit of common sense. They were poorly matched, and not only would it go down in flames, but it would take Perry’s reputation with it.

Still. Those things were easy to forget just now.

Perry hadn’t answered his question, but that didn’t stop Harry from keeping on talking. There was very little that could.

“This is a really nice bed,” he said. “It’s like sleeping in a kangaroo’s pouch. You know, without the mucus. If I knew it was this nice, I would have let you take me to bed ages ago.”

“Why didn’t you?”

The words just popped out. It was probably the drugs talking, but there was no way to be sure.

Harry shrugged. “I know I don’t really fit into your life, Perry. I mean, I’m not made by Armani. I know I’m good enough to work for you; maybe I’m even good enough to be your dirty little secret. But you’d never love me. And I’m cool with that.”

A chill shot through Perry’s veins.

“Because you could never love me,” he said. “I’m just a paycheck and a good mouth.”

“No,” Harry said. “You’re a paycheck and a _great_ mouth.”

Perry didn’t laugh. Harry’s brow creased.

“Are we having a Feelings Talk? I thought gays didn’t do that.”

“Just this once.”

“Okay. So you’re in love with me?”

Perry was starting to wish he had stayed in the hospital. Or with the goons at Peterson’s.

“I don’t—I could be. Maybe.”

Harry grinned and crawled over him. The weight on Perry’s ribs was painful, but he would stand it. It was worth it. Harry kissed him, eagerly, and Perry flinched.

“Maybe not,” Harry said, and started to pull away.

“I—no, Harry—you idiot, stop it,” Perry said. “I got twenty stitches in my mouth not two hours ago; if you would just cool your jets and kiss me softly, not like some oversexed high school hard on—”

Harry rolled his eyes, but he crawled back over Perry, and tried again, pressing a gentle kiss to the unstitched side of Perry’s mouth.

“I love you, too,” he said.  


  


  


  


  


  


  



End file.
